


For Your Eyes Only

by bennygecko



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 00:48:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7384351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bennygecko/pseuds/bennygecko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sunrises are still the same as two hundred years ago. That’s one detail that hasn’t left him, one thing he’s allowed himself to cling on to. It’s an indulgence he still allows himself, waking up early to watch the sunrise with a steaming hot cup of coffee. Maybe it’s silly, and Piper has certainly questioned the practice plenty of times, but he still wakes up every day, five o’clock sharp, piping hot mug and the latest issue of Publick Occurrences in hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Your Eyes Only

The sky is just starting to lighten as Deckard drops into his rickety rocking chair, streaks of blue and purple and pink light smudged across the sky as the sun gets closer to making its first appearance of the day. It reminds him of the finger paintings his sister’s kid used to do. Colors mixed together, smeared across the paper with the careless hands of a child.

He used to spend countless hours imagining the days to come when Shaun would be old enough to finger paint and ride a bike and play catch like his niece did. But, that was then. He doesn’t think about Shaun much, not anymore. He doesn’t think about his niece much, either, or his sister. That was a different time, a different life. None of it matters to him now.

He doesn’t remember his niece’s name anymore, he’s realized recently. It’s just another detail from an old life that’s slipped away, fluttered out of his grasp. That life isn’t his anymore. All those little things he used to concern himself with, all the minutiae and routines and trivialities of that life, it’s all gone.

That’s fine by him. This new life isn’t so bad, all things considered. He’s relatively content, he has good friends and good work to keep himself busy. It’s no paradise, but it’s at least tolerable.

Still. Some things have been harder to let go than others, he thinks as his eyes fall to the simple gold band on his ring finger, still there after all this time. He’s thought about taking it off, many, many times, but never has. He’d sold Max’s ring for a decent amount of caps back when he’d first left the vault. Maybe it’s about time he did the same with his.

Deckard sighs and picks up his mug, takes a long sip of his coffee. The mug is an old, beat up thing, the outer surface covered in chips and cracks. He remembers the day when Preston gave it to him vividly, how bright his smile had been, the way his eyes had lit up and the corners had crinkled when Deckard accepted the gift. Preston hadn’t been anything more than an acquaintance at that time. Funny, how things can change so dramatically in such a sort amount of time.

The sunrises are still the same as two hundred years ago. That’s one detail that hasn’t left him, one thing he’s allowed himself to cling on to. It’s an indulgence he still allows himself, waking up early to watch the sunrise with a steaming hot cup of coffee. Maybe it’s silly, and Piper has certainly questioned the practice plenty of times, but he still wakes up every day, five o’clock sharp, piping hot mug and the latest issue of Publick Occurrences in hand.

The front door opens behind him and Deckard looks back to see Preston standing in the doorway, eyes still bleary with sleep. Preston yawns behind a hand and smiles, gives Deckard a wave. “Morning, General.”

Deckard gives him a small smile. “Sleep well?”

“Better than I have in ages,” Preston replies, laying a light hand on Deckard’s back before dropping into the chair next to him. “It’s nice to sleep in a real bed with real sheets and real pillows. Your accommodations are luxury compared to the places we stay when we’re out there.”

A shrug. “It’s no five star hotel, but I like to keep things tidy.”

Preston laughs brightly, and Deckard hates what it does to him. He’s a grown ass adult and this man still manages to make him feel like he’s some fucking infatuated teenager. Christ.

“You do this every morning, don’t you?” Preston asks.

Deckard nods. “It’s a nice start to the day.”

Preston hums in agreement. “Sure seems like it.”

The birds are already starting to sing and chirp, and a dog barks off somewhere in the near distance, Dogmeat by the sound of it. It’s easy to forget sometimes that you’re not actually alone in this world, that life still goes on and the birds still sing and the sun still rises. The world hadn’t really ended all those years ago when the bombs fell, he’s come to realize. It was just a way of life that ended. The world kept on spinning and the animals kept on living and the plants kept on growing. Nothing ended. Just changed.

Deckard spares a glance toward Preston and clears his throat quietly, swallows past the dry lump in his throat. “Max never…” A cough. “He was a late sleeper. Never could get him out of bed in time to see the sunrise.”

Preston’s eyes soften, mouth curling up in a smile. “Tell me about him.”

Deckard is quiet for a moment, silently sipping away at his coffee. “What do you want to know?” he asks finally, not quite meeting Preston’s gaze.

“Whatever you feel comfortable telling me,” Preston says. “You don’t have to, of course,” he adds quickly. “I don’t want you to talk about something that upsets you.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Deckard says quietly, setting his coffee mug down on the end table next to his chair. “He was… tall. And he was funny. Funniest guy you’d ever meet. He’d walk into a room and tell a joke and everyone around him became transfixed. He just had that… charm about him, you know? Throw Max into a room full of strangers and give him an hour and everyone would be calling him a friend. He was just…” he trails off, gives Preston a one-armed shrug. “He was incredible.”

“I’m sorry,” Preston says. “He sounds like a good man.”

“Yeah,” Deckard chuckles. “He was… he was a good man.”

Silence falls between them, but it’s a comfortable, personable silence. It’s always that way with Preston. Everything about him is just… right. Comfortable. Soothing, even.

Christ. He’s too old to be feeling like this again.

Deckard twists his wedding ring with his thumb, watches the light from the fluorescent bulbs overhead glint against the shiny polished gold. He glances down at his hand, back at Preston. “Hey,” he says softly. “Can I ask you something, Preston?”

“Of course,” Preston says. “Whatever it is.”

Deckard gives him a thin, forced smile and scratches at the scruff on his cheek, takes off his hat to comb his fingers through his hair. “Does it bother you?” he asks finally. “That I still wear it?”

“No,” Preston says, firmly and decisively.

Deckard raises an eyebrow, purses his lips. “It doesn’t?”

“Of course not, Deckard. I can’t imagine what it’s like to go through something like that, losing someone so close to you. Someone you loved.” He stops, and Deckard can feel Preston’s eyes seeking out his own, but he doesn’t meet his gaze. ”You grieve how you need to, for however long you need to. It’s not up to me or anyone else to tell you that it’s time to move on. That’s for you to decide, and you only.”

The corner of Deckard’s mouth quirks up in the slightest of smiles. “Anyone ever tell you you’re perfect?”

Preston laughs at that, the laugh that always makes his stomach twist, loud and bright and carefree. It’s hard to tell for sure in the dim morning light, but if he’s not mistaken, he can see the burn of crimson on Preston’s cheeks and ears, and Deckard feels a sort of satisfaction at that.

“You’re flattering me,” Preston smiles.

Deckard picks up his mug and takes a short sip. “Just telling the truth, Mister Garvey.”

Some of the neighbors are starting to wake, mostly the field workers and crop tenders rising early to get their work done before the heat becomes too much to bear. A few of them wave or nod at Deckard as they pass by, and he returns their greetings with short nods and grunts.

Maybe this isn’t exactly the life he’d planned for himself all those hundreds of years ago, but it’s what he’s got and really, things could be so much worse. He’s got good people to work with, a promising community flourishing around him, and, perhaps most important of all, he’s got Preston. Lord knows how he’s managed to keep someone as incredible as him around, but Deckard doesn’t think he’d still be alive today if it wasn’t for him. Probably would have gotten himself killed ages ago.

The sun is just starting to peek over the horizon as Deckard finishes off his coffee, golden rays of sunshine beginning to bathe the Commonwealth in warmth and light. Deckard heaves a content sigh and stretches his arms over his head with a groan, rubs at the back of his neck with a weathered hand. He glances at Preston out of the corner of his eye and gives him a small smile. “Hey, Preston,” he says softly. “Look, I just… You know you’re not a replacement, right? You’re… so much more than that. I loved Max and maybe I—“ he stops himself, clears his throat. “I care for you, Preston. So much.”

Preston reaches over to lay a gentle hand on Deckard’s thigh and gives him a wide, beaming smile. “I care for you, too, General. I really, really do.”

Deckard gives him a short laugh, hand sliding to rest on top of Preston’s. “How’d I get so lucky?”

Preston hums. “Funny, I was asking myself the same damn thing.”

“Christ,” Deckard shakes his head. “You really bring out my goddamn sappy side. Thought that part of me was long gone.”

“I like this side of you,” Preston smiles. “But I like _every_ side of you. Even the grumpy one.”

“Alright, now you’re just bullshitting me.”

Preston laughs and reaches up to cup Deckard’s cheek. “I’d never lie to you, General.”

Deckard smirks and leans forward to press his lips to Preston’s, soft and slow, reaching a hand up to rake through Preston’s tight curls. He feels Preston smile into the kiss and Deckard pulls away, rests his forehead against Preston’s with a shaky sigh.

“That was nice,” Preston says softly, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips.

Deckard hums and leans back, letting his hand slide from Preston’s face. “Hey, do you…” he stops, gives Preston a stiff shrug. “I have a box,” he says. “With stuff. Pictures.” A pause. “Do you want to see it?”

Preston smiles. “Deckard, I’d love to.”

Deckard nods and pushes himself out of his seat wordlessly, making his way inside the house to retrieve the old rusted safe box from its place beneath his bed. He makes his way back out to the porch and drops back into his seat, opens the lid and digs around inside the box. After a moment of searching, he pulls out a weathered, yellowing photograph and holds it out for Preston to take.

Preston takes the picture with delicate hands, swipes away some of the dust gently with his thumb. The photograph is faded, the edges crumbling and curling, but Deckard and Max are still visible in the center of the picture, both men buffed and polished and dressed up in matching tuxes. Max’s arm is curled around Deckard’s waist pulling him close, wide, toothy grins spread across both men’s faces.

“That was the day we got married,” Deckard says, nodding at the picture in Preston’s hand.

Preston smiles, glancing up at Deckard, then back at the photograph. “You clean up well, General.”

“I guess,” Deckard says. “Maxwell never much cared for the beard and he wouldn’t let me wear my hat or my boots to the wedding, so.” A shrug.

Deckard still remembers that day well, how nervous Max had been beforehand, how much he’d fretted over making sure everything was carefully planned so as to avoid any hiccups. Max was always such a perfectionist, always wanting everything to go as smoothly as possible, never tolerating so much as a minor inconvenience. He’d have hated this new world, this new life. Too much disorder, too much chaos, not enough structure. A veritable living nightmare, Max would have said.

Maybe there was a reason that _he_ was the one who survived and not Max. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but the truth always hurts, or so they say. Deckard had adjusted fairly quickly to the change, but he’s not entirely sure if Max would have fared quite so well.

Preston takes one last look and carefully returns the picture to the safe box. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” he says. “Really. I mean it.”

Deckard licks his lips, nods curtly. “Sure. Of course.”

“You’ll have to tell me more about him sometime,” Preston says. “If you want to, of course.”

Deckard smiles, a real, actual, _genuine_ smile, the kind of smile he saves only for Preston. “I’d love to.”

Preston returns Deckard’s smile with one of his own. “Great. I look forward to it.”

It’s been a while since Deckard has looked forward to anything. The first month or so out of the vault had been spent looking backward, everything after that spent in the moment just trying to survive and get through the day. Now he actually _has_ reasons to look forward and anticipate days to come, and it’s all because of Preston. All of it, everything he has, it’s all thanks to him.

He’s not exactly sure how to even begin to repay someone for something as monumental as that. Preston gave him a purpose, a cause to devote his time and energy to, people to love and care for. Some days, he’s not entirely sure if he deserves any of this, if he even deserves Preston, but he’s still here by Deckard’s side, after all this time, all they’ve been through.

Deckard doesn’t know exactly how long this… _thing_ he and Preston have will last, or where the future will take them, but he decides then that as long as Preston is with him, he doesn’t much care. Just the prospect of a future together is enough for him.

“Well,” Deckard pushes himself up and out of his seat. “I promised Sturges I’d help him with building the new greenhouse. I don’t know how long it’s going to take us, so I’d like to get a head start.”

“Alright,” Preston smiles. “You want me to help out, General? I’d be more than happy.”

“No,” Deckard shakes his head, slides his hands in his pockets. “You need some rest and some quality R and R, okay?”

Preston furrows his brows, a frown pulling at his lips. “If you insist.”

“I do indeed insist,” says Deckard.

“Well, just take it easy out there, okay?” Preston says. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. I’m always ready and able if you and Sturges need any help.”

Deckard smirks and leans down to brush his lips against Preston’s cheek. “Take care of yourself today, Preston. Get some rest, eat some real food, _relax_. Promise?”

A nod. “I promise,” Preston says.

“Good.” Deckard stands up straight and holds a hand over his brow, squinting to keep the early morning sunlight out of his eyes. “Well. Daylight’s wasting and all that.”

“Go on,” Preston smiles. “Have fun. And hey, Deckard. You take care of yourself today, too.”

Deckard doffs his hat and bows his head. “I’ll do my very best, Mister Garvey.”

“I know you will,” Preston says. “You always do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my good friends Audrey and Savvy for proofreading this for me!


End file.
